


Break the Rules with Me

by Margaery



Series: Spoils of Victory [1]
Category: Tennis RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, Ritual Sex, Victors, conflicted feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-14
Updated: 2013-06-14
Packaged: 2017-12-15 00:21:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,947
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/843150
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Margaery/pseuds/Margaery
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“On your knees,” Novak says again, because he can, because he’s won Monte fucking Carlo, and if he can’t put Rafa Nadal on his knees after that, when can he?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Break the Rules with Me

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Français available: [Briser les règles](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11371803) by [Isagawa](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Isagawa/pseuds/Isagawa)



There are rules, even here; perhaps especially here, in this post-match ritual of submission.

Novak’s no blushing innocent. He’s lost count of how many times he’s done this, either in Rafa’s current position or his, either as loser or winner. (But no, that’s a lie: fourteen times in Rafa’s, twenty-two times in his. Novak doesn’t lose count of things.) 

But whether he remembers the exact number or not (he does), Novak’s been here many times before. He knows the rules. And he knows that it’s up to Rafa to begin, to look up from his taped fingers, to break the silence.

Rafa exhales, the sound loud in the empty locker room. Novak leans against his locker and waits.

It was Rafa the first time too, sunshine and Indian Wells and nineteen-year-old Novak, so full of youthful bravado. He’s glad it was Rafa, in an odd way. It shouldn’t make a difference, really; this isn’t about _sex_. This is about dominance and submission and ritual, the Grand Slams and Masters 1000s ending properly, the way they always have and always will. (But still Novak is glad it was Rafa, in a little stubborn voice that won’t quite be silenced.)

“Where?” Rafa asks, with a one-shouldered shrug, as if nothing about this matters much to him.

It _should_ matter to him. It would have been nine in a row, an obscene number, and he’d come so close, only for Novak to seize it and wrest it away. It should matter. Rafa should be gritting his teeth, forcing his submission out because he has to, not acting like it’s nothing, like everything is rolling along just fine.

“On your knees,” Novak says, because this should matter, because maybe _that_ will make Rafa look at him, really look at him, and not just like he’s another post-match obligation to be got through, Uncle Toni’s obedient little soldier.

He gets his result. The command does make Rafa look at him, one rubber eyebrow arching slowly upward. “Better to…”

“On your knees,” Novak says again, because he can, because he’s won Monte fucking Carlo, and if he can’t put Rafa Nadal on his knees after that when can he?

Rafa keeps looking at him for a moment. Novak wonders if he’ll say no - can he? It’s not like there are official ATP enforcers, it’s not like it’s in the guidebook they hand out to new players. For all that everyone knows this happens, it’s not discussed. The rules are understood but never talked about; Novak’s not sure if he’s within his rights to ask for this, but he knows he has the upper hand as the victor. 

It doesn’t matter. Rafa doesn’t challenge him – he’s making a little face, yes, inscrutably animated. But face or no face, he’s closing the space between them, the sure easy swing of his walk sending anticipatory thrills through Novak’s already adrenalin-saturated body, and then he’s dropping to his knees, just as Novak ordered.

Rafa always follows the rules.

It takes him two movements to make it down this time, two careful movements. (Novak remembers him needing only a single easy unprompted one, once upon a time.) But the end result is all that matters: Rafa Nadal, defeated at Novak’s hands, balancing on his injured knees in front of the victor of Monte Carlo. 

Novak almost feels guilty for a second, looking down at Rafa’s thinning hair, but this is his moment, even more than lifting the trophy. This is the way it’s always done, and after all, it could just as easily be him having to submit – this morning he’d almost not dared to think it could be anyone _except_ him facing the loser’s forfeit, even though his game was singing in his veins. Rafa doesn’t lose in Monte Carlo. He just _doesn’t lose_.

But today he has, and today Novak has beaten him, and if Novak wants him on his knees, then that’s where he’ll be.

Rafa’s hands are at his shorts, moving this along. Novak fights the urge to let his eyes slide shut, even as the blood races through his veins. He wants to remember all of this. Rafa on his knees, yes, but also the coarse rasp of Rafa’s taped fingers as he slides them inside Novak’s waistband, pulling down his shorts and underwear; the electric heat of Rafa’s mouth as he takes Novak’s cock inside without preamble or warning; the velvet caress of Rafa’s tongue as he sets to work in the age-old tennis tradition.

To the victor go the spoils.

Novak remembers his first victory, Miami 2007, when Cañas just shrugged and stuck a hand down his shorts, finishing off the whole ritual in a few quick strokes. He remembers his first victory that felt like a victory, Montreal 2007, when Roger smiled that quirky little smile of his and showed him how it was properly done; even now, he can’t help feeling a bit proud that he had Roger before Roger had him (and also a bit proud that he showed Roger he was a fast learner, those few weeks later at the US Open).

But Rafa was his first, Rafa the first person that Novak went to his own knees for, and despite everyone else that has come after (his juvenile brain snickers at the _double entendre_ ), there’s still something special when it’s the two of them. 

Maybe it’s the rivalry, maybe it’s all the classic matches they’ve played, maybe it’s…

Rafa sucks harder, and Novak loses the capacity for complicated thoughts, which is very possibly the outcome Rafa intended. 

When he reaches down, Rafa’s hair is slick with sweat. It slides through his fingers, and the pull must catch Rafa’s attention; he looks up through his eyelashes, slow and steady.

It’s that look that makes Novak shiver. Oh, Rafa’s mouth is still hot and wet and driving Novak crazy, and they won’t be much longer here; Novak never lasts long with Rafa, and he doesn’t think he would even if this wasn’t about victory and defeat, even if this was about pleasure and joy instead. (But he doesn’t think about that, because he doesn’t want to dream of a Rafa in his bed, in his arms, and wake up to find them empty.) Rafa’s good at everything he does, tennis and jokes and Playstation and football, winning people’s hearts and making them laugh, and so it’s no surprise that he excels at the post-match ritual as well, even if he hasn’t had much practice in the losing position.

But above all that, despite all Rafa’s skill, it’s his look that makes Novak bite back a curse, his teeth sinking into his bottom lip. 

He’s seen all sorts of things in people’s eyes when they’re in this position. Frustration at losing the match. Disappointment. Resignation. Laughter (Gaël can’t do anything without laughing, Novak thinks). Awkward dislike (Richie couldn’t do it fast enough, and he’d looked away so quickly when Novak met his eye). Bland sarcasm (somehow it doesn’t work that well with your best mate – Andy usually has to goad him with choice words about his virility. Novak doesn’t want to think too much about the fact that the taunt works.) 

Rafa’s eyes glitter, and they know too much. 

Novak must make a sound. He watches as his hand slips from sweaty hair to trail across Rafa’s ear, down Rafa’s cheekbone, around the bulge of his cock in Rafa’s mouth. He doesn’t mean to do it, any more than the look in Rafa’s eyes means to soften into something Novak’s afraid to analyze too closely. It just happens.

Rafa pulls back, letting Novak’s cock pop out with an obscene sound. 

This is new. This doesn’t happen. You do it, you finish, you give the guy a helping hand up (if he’s gone to his knees – Novak doesn’t usually demand it, and some guys, like Mardy and Richie, prefer to use their hand), you nod, you go your separate ways. Until the next time.

You don’t pause in the middle and stop what you’re doing and look up at the guy who’s beaten you and _smile_ …

But Rafa doesn’t lose, even when he’s beaten, and he knows exactly what he’s doing in this game. Novak’s already so close, so close - and now Rafa’s looking up at him like that, Rafa Nadal on his knees, smiling up at him like he wants to be there, eyes alight - and Novak’s swearing and reaching down, needing needing needing – and Rafa, still smiling, reaches out his own hand and knocks Novak’s aside, calluses and tape just on the right side of too rough – 

And then Rafa leans down to press a cheeky kiss to Novak’s cock, and that’s it, that’s it, Novak’s coming, all over Rafa’s face, and Rafa just closes his eyes and lets him, and Novak has to let his own eyes drop shut because it’s too much.

(Novak remembers every rule. Rafa does too. Rafa just ignores them sometimes.)

He comes back to himself some moments later to see Rafa reaching for his discarded shirt to wipe his face clean. “Hey, that’s mine. Get your towel or something.”

Rafa grins at him, and that’s. That’s not done either. “Shirt is closer, no?”

“You’re a dick,” Novak tells him, but Rafa just keeps grinning, makes a big show of rubbing his face all over Novak’s shirt and getting it as smeared as possible. Well. There goes that shirt. Like he’s going to wear it again and keep wondering if that little stain there…

Rafa holds the shirt out to him, eyebrows laughing merrily, and Novak wrinkles his nose. “Keep it, I don’t want it,” he says – and only after the words come out does he realize how awkward they were. Like _Rafa_ wants a shirt with Novak's cum on it! 

But Rafa just keeps smiling, and after a moment Novak reaches a hand down to help him up. 

Knees or no knees, Rafa doesn’t wince as he’s pulled upright, although he does lean a bit more heavily on Novak’s hand than Novak thinks he would have normally. It’s like Rafa to show no pain to an opponent, even here, even after what they’ve just shared. (Although it would be entirely beyond Novak to define that particular experience.)

They’re very close for a second. Rafa’s still holding the shirt; Novak’s palm feels incredibly sweaty in Rafa’s strong grip, the two of them locked together in victory and defeat. The moment stretches on, and somehow, inexorably, Novak finds himself staring at Rafa’s lips. They’re still turned upwards, mobile and amused, and the slightest faintest dot of white lingers like a freckle above them. 

He wants, suddenly, unexpectedly. He wants to lean in and kiss it away.

The thought scares him, and he steps back, letting go of Rafa’s hand, putting some distance between them. There are rules, and Novak’s pretty fucking sure that wanting to _kiss_ your defeated opponent trespasses at least eighty million of them.

Rafa hasn’t moved. Rafa’s still watching him, that smile still on his lips, quicksand-sticky, quicksand-dangerous.

The moment stretches.

It’s Rafa who breaks it. “Good match today.” He’s still smiling. “But you be careful, no? You win my favorite tournament, I get revenge.” 

Novak seizes on the playfulness with a relief he’s not going to query too closely. “I’m so scared. You gonna beat me in Madrid or Rome, you think?”

Rafa tosses the shirt aside with the same easy grace he does everything. On court, he’s all power and speed, but off court everything he does has almost a hypnotizing simplicity to it; or maybe that’s just Novak’s strange brain talking. “I gonna beat you in Roland Garros.”

Somehow it has the calm assurance of a prophecy. And maybe it is; Novak knows better than to bet against Rafa Nadal rolling in the Paris clay as he has seven times before. He owns that Slam, owns it body and soul.

Still, Novak can’t give in so easily. He’s the number one in the world, he has six Grand Slams to his name, he can fight for the Coupe des Mousquetaires as fiercely as any Spaniard. “You think so? I think it’s my year. My turn.”

Rafa just looks at him, smiling, then shrugs. “I think you can try.”

Perhaps it’s that, the dismissal in the hour of his triumph, which makes Novak say what he says next. Perhaps it’s his constant need to be the center of attention, to have all eyes on him. Perhaps it’s his uncomfortable new compulsion to have Rafa see him, really see him, a compulsion that he’s not sure he’s ready to examine too closely. (Perhaps it’s the muscles in Rafa's back, rippling as he moves; perhaps it’s the smile on his face as Novak striped it with white; perhaps it’s the rough gentleness of his hands and the sinful perfection of his mouth…but Novak shoves those memories to one side, to be dealt with later, because this wasn’t supposed to be about sex, _the rules are_ that it’s not about sex, it’s not, it’s not.)

“You beat me in Roland Garros again, you can fuck me.”

The words hang in the air between them. If Novak wanted Rafa’s full attention, he surely has it now. 

Then Rafa laughs, making some sort of gesture that encompasses the two of them. “I think I already fuck you. And you fuck me. Many times.”

“No,” Novak says, growing reckless now that the words are out there, even as a small rule-abiding part of him gibbers indignantly in the back of his mind. “No, I don’t mean that.” _I don’t mean the ritual._ “I mean you can fuck me. You win Roland Garros, you beat me, you can fuck me.” He doesn’t know how much more clearly he can put it, short of grabbing Rafa’s hand and putting it on his own ass.

But Rafa seems to have grasped his meaning now. “This is not the rules.”

Novak swallows. “Fuck the rules.” For all he knows, they may be put in the same half, or even the same quarter, and only the final is followed by the ritual. This isn’t about the rules or the ritual, not anymore; he thinks it may not have been for a while. (And he really needs to stop thinking about this until he can go into a quiet room and have a solitary freakout and learn the contours of his brain all over again. Obviously he doesn’t know it quite as well as he thought he did.)

Rafa’s studying him like he’s a new opponent, someone to be dissected and analyzed and ruthlessly deconstructed. “What if you win?”

Novak tries to smile teasingly, although it feels a trifle shaky. “I thought you said that wasn’t going to happen? You gonna win for sure?”

“Nothing for sure,” Rafa says, and here with just the two of them it sounds less humble and more heavy than it usually does; Novak hears the weight of doubts and squandered months, the ache of splintered knees.

Novak shrugs. “Well, if I win, maybe I fuck you.”

And that, that’s surely going too far, his bravado has carried him too far this time. He shouldn’t have said anything – ever, but certainly not now, not with Rafa still sore from defeat, not with him still reckless from victory, not with that freckle of white on Rafa’s lip still driving him crazy.

“You want to change the ritual?” Rafa asks, brow furrowed. “We ask Rogi, Andy, other guys…”

“This isn’t about the ritual,” Novak says, and somewhere that little gibbering voice of sense throws up its hands and quits in disgust, but sometimes communicating across two language barriers requires that you just bite the bullet and say what you mean. He can’t massage English anyway, let alone under stress like this. “This is a bet, you and me.”

Rafa studies him. His brow is still drawn down; Novak can see him turning the words over in his brain. 

Then Rafa smiles, and it’s like sunshine breaking through a cloud. “I like bets.”

“Yeah?” Novak says, and grins back, more in relief than anything else. “We on, then?”

“I beat you at Roland Garros, I fuck you,” Rafa says. “You beat me, you fuck me.”

The words are simple, and yet hearing Rafa say them…Novak blinks, lost.

From Rafa’s roguish grin, Novak thinks he’s seen. Rafa’s one of the nicest guys on tour (among other things), but he’s ruthless when he scents advantage. He will take you apart and love doing it, then clap you on the back and make you laugh afterward. He’s a menace.

(So why is Novak breaking all the rules for him?)

“At Roland Garros,” Rafa says, making the words sound like a caress, as if Roland Garros is his mistress, instead of a long-dead French pilot. (Novak supposes it almost is; Rafa and Roland Garros have been together since 2005, after all, with that one short break in 2009. Whether or not Roland Garros truly loves him back, now that’s a different story…and Novak is officially going a little bit silly now.)

“At Roland Garros,” he manages.

Rafa smiles at him again.

(He remembers all the times Rafa’s beaten him. He remembers all the times he’s beaten Rafa. He remembers the first time, in 2007, and he remembers the last time, just today, and he remembers all the times in between. He always remembers.) 

The last thought Novak has before Tio Toni comes barreling in to whisk Rafa away is, _I am so, so fucked._

Given his total and utter fucked-ness, he doesn’t quite know why he’s smiling.

He smiles anyway.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [2015 Was A Strange Year](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5698855) by [TheMostCareful](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheMostCareful/pseuds/TheMostCareful)
  * [Too On](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9290813) by [TheMostCareful](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheMostCareful/pseuds/TheMostCareful)




End file.
